


So The Sun Is Ashamed

by JJ_Shinnick



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: And is still porn, First Time, M/M, Manipulative sex, Porn, This was supposed to be PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJ_Shinnick/pseuds/JJ_Shinnick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A different version of Jack and Pitch's confrontation on the mountain.  ...Pretty much porn.  Porn with plot, yeah.  But mostly porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So The Sun Is Ashamed

The moment Pitch touched you was the moment it all fell apart. All our carefully martialed defenses, all the reasons you shouldn't, all crumbled like one of Sandy's dreams in the shadow of that great frigid monument to what you could be, together. You found yourself pressing into it, shameless as a cat. His fingers were warm, though you suspected a human would not find them so. Not even one of the warmer spirits. But to you, used only to the cold kiss of briar and hoarfrost, the touch of it was soft as a brand.

Pitch chuckled, low and dark. “It's so lonely, isn't it?” he said. “So cold, to be unseen, un _touched_.” The last word came out on a hiss as he pulled you closer, thumb on the crest of your cheekbone, long fingers wrapping all the way to the back of your neck. And Pitch just kept talking, voice as smooth and dark as the lakes you sometimes spun ice across. “You've been alone a very long time, haven't you.” You knew it wasn't a question but nodded anyway for the pleasure of the drag of flesh on flesh. You let your eyes fall closed. You knew a lost fight when you stumbled into one, and this was the prize for surrender, you didn't want to win. Just this once.

“In fact... Jack Frost,” the sound of your name made you shudder. You'd gone decades between hearing it before, decades and longer. “Your name would have fallen out of use hundreds of years before you were chosen.” Suddenly Pitch was standing very close to you, not at the safety of arm's length but close enough for you to tell he smelled not of rot as you'd expected, but cold, clear ice. “Have you ever been touched?” he whispered. “Have you ever known the sweetness of skin on skin?”

“No,” you said, too quiet but certain he could hear you. “Please-- don't stop.” And Pitch threw back his head and laughed. The sound of it sent more than one shiver down your spine, for more than one reason.

“My dear Jack Frost,” he said, and you were certain suddenly that he knew how that hit you. “It is far past time that someone showed you,” he leaned close and your eyes snapped open at the feel of warm breath on your other cheek, across from the one cupped in his hand. “You're missing so much, Jack,” he whispered.

“Show me.” The words come out of your mouth without a thought, but then you'd never been the thinking sort. Another hand stole around your waist as the one on your cheek slid down, down your throat and behind your shoulder.

“Oh, I will,” Pitch said. “But first, you need to put down your staff.” That was enough to ring alarm bells even in your pleasure-numb brain. You watched Pitch watch your expression change, watched those startling lamp-like eyes close and warm lips cover your own, and that was so _good—_ a sweet shock like the sun breaking through clouds all at once. Your staff fell from your hand as you clutched at his shoulders, still startled when your hands found warm cloth instead of passing right through.

It was sweet and soft and utterly new, and you suddenly understood three hundred years of couples kissing in doorways, unwilling to part even to shut out the cold. You clung to Pitch as his lips moved over yours, thawing your knees into water and stealing your frozen breath. When he pulled back—not far, your breath still mingled into mist, hot and chill—you heard a faint whine like cracking ice and realized it had come from your own throat. Pitch chuckled.

“So innocent,” he gloated, and his voice was a little ragged, though nothing like your own panting breath. “I will enjoy this far too much.” And he shoved you down, down to your knees in the soft warm snow. You would have protested—meant to—but he followed you down, warm mouth hungry against yours before you could get the words out. This kiss made the first one look sweet, firm lips and the edges of teeth.

“I thought first times were supposed to be gentle,” you said, and Pitch pressed another close-mouthed kiss to your neck, followed it up with a scraping of teeth that warred with the kiss for the best thing you'd ever felt. “Maybe,” Pitch said, “But we are what we are. Would you want me gentle, Jack?” And you had to shake your head as sharp teeth closed on your neck. It hurt, stung rather, but even that was so terribly good. Pitch was warm as lazy summers hidden underground. HE let up to lap at the wound with his thick warm tongue, and your eyes fell up to the monolith—sharp ice and darkness. What they could be together.

Pitch noticed your attention wandering, of course he did. He drew back again, and this time there was blood on his teeth. You weren't sure how you felt about that, but it wasn't revulsion. Wasn't anything like it. You leaned forward, very slowly in case you were doing it wrong, and pressed your lips to his again. Pitch opened his mouth for you so you could taste your own blood, bitter as pine sap.

“We could stand to be more comfortable,” Pitch said when the taste had faded in your mouth. He had to stop kissing you to do so, and your displeasure must have shown on your face.

“Half the fun,” Pitch said, “is in the chase.” he pressed another kiss, sweet and brief to your lips, before he lifted one elegant wrist and let the shadow spill over the ground. It melted a hole into the earth, which Pitch disappeared down immediately. You followed without thinking—Pitch was right, the chase was fantastic. You leapt rock to rock, not quite flying not quite falling. You realized halfway down that you'd left your staff, but you couldn't bring yourself to go back for it. Your heart beat a rock ballad in your chest, new music that you'd fallen instantly in love with. The chase was sweet, but the best part was catching him, tumbling Pitch down under you into a thick pile of cushions.

“Beds remind me of work,” Pitch said, “But these serve me well.” The statement was almost shy, like he expected you to find fault with it. Here on his own ground, a layer of armor had fallen that Pitch didn't even seem to be aware of. Perched over him, your legs around his waist, you couldn't help finding the role-reversal a little amusing. You took advantage of the position to kiss him again, hot and sweet and only a little clumsy.

It was so much better like this, pressed so close in the soft cushions, even before Pitch slid his hands up under your jacket to splay them over the small of your back. His long fingers were so warm you could have sworn they would leave red marks where they clutched at you, greedy.

“Off,” Pitch said, tugging at the offending garment. It was hard to get off since neither of you wanted to break the kiss for more than the occasional stolen breath, but eventually you were shirtless under Pitch's hands and hungry eyes. He rolled you over into the thick cushions so he was pressing you down, and tore his mouth from yours so he could kiss his way down your chest, stopping to lick and suck at your collarbone, at the sharp lines where your ribs pressed famine-thin against your skin. Your breath was coming in soft sobbing moans that you couldn't seem to control, sharp gasps when he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked.

Pitch was muttering the whole time, a soft litany of “So soft. So cold and sweet,” that you doubted he was even aware of, muffled into your skin. It wasn't fair that he was still dressed. You pushed at his jacket feebly; Pitch got the message and stripped it off, tossing it aside with a rippling flap like bat wings as the thick cloth settled. Under it was a sleeveless black shirt, and you were distracted by the lithe corded muscle of his arms, accentuated by the shadows that clung to his skin like paint. Like paint or dust they came away at your touch, staining your hands dark.

“Tit for tat, _dear_ ,” Pitch growled, and peeled off your pants. You spared a moment to be grateful you'd picked up the habit of briefs from the humans, not least because Pitch's scowl was _priceless_.

“Not fair at all,” You pointed out, and attacked Pitch's clothes in turn. You got the shirt off mostly by virtue of tearing it. You hadn't meant to, but the fabric was silk-thin and worn threadbare. The pants were trickier, dress slacks in not much better shape but made of sterner stuff to begin with. You managed the button and zip before Pitch caught your wrists, pressed them together above your head with one enormous hand.

“I am trying,” he growled, “to take this slow.” The monster was in his voice and you bucked up without thinking, not trying to get away at all unless it was to get closer. You let out a whine that had him smiling again—but Pitch's teeth were too sharp for any smile of his to be _nice_. “Patience, darling,” he told you. “This is much too good to rush.” He buried his face in your neck so the next words were muffled.

“Christ in Heaven, much too good to only have once.” The words were rueful, and you thought you weren't meant to have heard them, but his free hand was almost achingly tender as it slid down your chest to cup the bulge in your briefs.

“Too good, Pitch, _yes_ ,” you groaned, and bucked into the touch. Pitch grinned and released your hands, which attached themselves to his firm shoulders with no input from you at all. He pushed your underwear down and let you kick it the rest of the way off. Then there was nothing to do but watch as he took your cock in one spider-thin golden hand. His hand was warm and soft, not callused like yours was by staff-work, with blunt square nails. Not terrible claws at all, you thought, and like the rest of him smudged all over with the dust of nightmares. You were mesmerized by the slow feather-light grip, by the contrast of his skin against yours. The Pitch tightened his hand, and you threw back your head at the sensation, a ragged moan tearing itself from your lips.

You didn't last; you did try after his comment about not rushing. Still it couldn't have been more than a dozen strokes until you were coming chilly white over his hand. You heard yourself cry out, an almost-shout that hurt your throat.

When the world spun back into lazy focus, Pitch was licking his fingers, sucking on the tips. You almost wanted to ask for a taste, to see how the taste of you would mix with the nightmares on his skin, but you couldn't find words for a long time, and by then it seemed a silly thing to say.

“So that's what that's about,” you joked raggedly, when you'd gotten enough air. You couldn't seem to quite catch your breath.

“That isn't all,” Pitch said, still in that husky growl. “Barely the appetizer.”

“Oh,” you said, squirming a little under that luminous and frighteningly intense gaze. You'd never seen anything like it, much less had it directed at you before. “What's the main course, then?” Pitch smirked, wicked.

“What do you know, Jack?” he whispered in you ear, menacing and oddly sweet. “What do you know about fucking?” The matter-of-fact way he said it made your mind freeze over. You weren't _new—_ but you'd always hesitated to spy on private moments. Not out of any kind of shame, mind you, but because they made you hurt in a lonely kind of way.

“Not much,” you admitted, ashamed now where you hadn't been before. The last thing you wanted was to seem childish in front of your lover. He was so famously bad with children. You spared a moment to wonder what on earth you were doing here, but the lazy satisfaction soaked into your bones was reminder enough. The expression on Pitch's face was enough, half-desperate, as though you were the only real thing in the world.

“Would you like to learn?” Pitch asked, and his voice was surprisingly gentle. “I don't mean to frighten you. I never mix business and pleasure.” He chuckled bitterly, though you didn't see what was funny about that really.

“Yes,” you said, and that was all you had to say. Pitch's mouth descended on yours again, no less hungry than before. The fabric of his slacks rubbed against your spent cock, over-sensitive, and you let out a whine that Pitch swallowed.

HE got off of you for a moment to rummage in the pocket of his coat, and you lay where he left you, happily spent. Still, the fire in your frozen blood was already returning, and you were glad when he came back quickly, carrying a slim plastic tube. He coated the fingers of one hand with its contents and started kissing you again, propping himself awkwardly up with the other.

You were too caught up in kissing him to notice where that hand was going at first. When one slick finger slid between your thighs, spreading your legs even further, you so startled you bit down on his lip.

“Sor--”Pitch chuckled and returned a nip, his own careful of his too-sharp teeth.

“Don't worry, Jack Frost,” and your name on his lips still had the power to make you shake, “I swear—it's good.” That finger circled your hole, gentle and strange, but quite nice really. You relaxed back into the cushions, though you couldn’t remember tensing. You could feel more now, like the orgasm had taken the edge off, but you still _wanted_. Nothing specific, nothing certain, but it had something to do with the finger teasing you, with the hardness you could feel in Pitch's pants, the way you could tell _he_ had never picked up the habit of underthings. Then that finger slipped inside and you knew what you wanted.

“Oh, yes,” you breathed at the stretch, at the feeling of being touched more intimately than you'd ever known to imagine. Pitch slid his finger in and out, fucking you slowly and inexorably open. When he added a second finger you let out a whine that even you might have been embarrassed by, if you'd still been capable of that much thought. “Pitch, please,” You said, not quite sure what you were asking for. Then those fingers twisted in just the perfect way and you saw stars.

“Good?” Pitch purred. He looked smug, but you could see the flush of pink in his golden cheeks.

“You know it is,” You managed, before he hit that spot again and you lost words.

“It gets even better,” Pitch told you. “Fingers are great. But once I get you nice and stretched, you're going to take my cock.” The idea was so stupidly hot that you didn't manage to respond in words, just clenched tight around his fingers in a way that made both of you groan. Pitch added a third finger and slipped his other hand under your waist to cant your hips up.

“Almost there, babe,” he said, the endearment falling from his lips as easy as a lie. He twisted his fingers a few more times and slid them out, leaving you gaping, achingly empty. You blinked up at him, feeling feverish from the heat of him all around you and jarred by the sudden lack.

“Just a moment, darling,” Pitch said. He'd found the little tube again and was opening it with shaking fingers. He slicked himself with a single rough stroke and lined himself up.

Pitch slid into you achingly slow, letting you feel every moment of the stretch, the glide. He was biting his own lip, a trickle of red welling from the tip of one fang. You wondered suddenly if he'd been human one too. If he still forgot those terrible teeth. You propped yourself up on your elbows so you could watch, both of you groaning as it made you clench. You stared at him sliding into you, mesmerized.

“Oh, yes,” Pitch growled, just that—reverent as a prayer.

“Move,” you growled back, a merciless god, surprised at your own courage. The effect didn't last. “Oh please move,” you babbled, begged. Pitch grinned, pulled out a few luxurious inches, and slammed back into you. You arched, raw, and reveled in the sensation.

After that it was all the slick glide of your bodies together, Pitch's voice muttering in your ear in a language like icebergs crashing together. You'd lost language altogether. You growled and moaned like a mountain cat, urging Pitch on.

It didn't last; no perfect moment ever could, you'd known that for centuries. You forced your eyes open as Pitch's voice went thready and thin. His cheeks were flushed dark with blood, making his golden eyes glow. You could hear your name in his babble, one word out of every half-dozen. You didn't know the words and you didn't need to. They were tender, loving, and that was enough to push you over the edge.

Your body seized as pleasure rolled through you like lighting. You heard Pitch cry your name, just at the edge of your perception. He kept pounding into you, desperate as a man in search of salvation. The aftershocks were like thunder, sweet and almost too much. He didn't last either; Pitch growled and came with a ragged groan, filling you with heat.

You lingered, intertwined, for a few moments that felt like an eternity of warmth and languid contentment. Eventually Pitch pulled off of you with a ragged laugh.

“All you ever wanted?” he asked, back to mocking, sarcastic—but you'd noticed something you hadn't before. There was a very real question their, and you nodded, still too spent for words. Pitch's laugh cut off suddenly, an expression of wonder crossing his face before he pulled his usual smirk back into place. “My dear,” he said, as though he really couldn't help himself. His fingers brushed your cheek. “Does this mean I've changed your mind? You will join me?” It was hard to think. You were so sleepy, so comfortable...but Pitch really didn't sound that surprised. More proud, like he'd been expecting it. Like it was something he'd made himself.

“No,” you said, softly and clearly. Maybe a little sadly. You _were_ two of a kind. That only gave you reason to be afraid of yourself now. Pitch pulled away from you as though he'd been burned, unable to hide his sudden fury.

“You're going to regret this, Jack Frost,” he growled, and you wondered if he just liked saying your name. Even spoken angrily, it made you shiver.

“Yes,” you answer, because you do know yourself, or you're coming to, and doing the right thing doesn't mean having no regrets. Maybe you should regret the sex, but you know that when you ache it's always going to be because you said no. You're prepared to live with that.

Pitch dresses quickly, pulling his coat around himself before he begins to laugh again. This is high, cruel. Hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, he is nonetheless every inch the king of nightmares. He's a bad dream incarnate, but you're still lit up, lazy and calm.

“Your defiance is _meaningless_ ,” Pitch tells you. “You're trapped here, without your staff. You will _rot_.” He stalks out; falling rocks close the tunnel behind him, sealing the room. It's your turn to laugh. You know something he's forgotten. The children of the world may not believe in you—but every child knows the bad guy never wins.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this for a prompt over on kinkmeme; that prompt had been filled three times by the time I finished this, and it had grown a plot (if a fairly small one) in its spare time.
> 
> This is the scene I wanted in the movie. Not just, or even mostly, the sex--but real temptation. I wanted to believe, if only for a moment, that Jack would throw over the Guardians and join Pitch for a bit of old-fashioned mayhem. I like even the best of my heroes to have weak moments, to sometimes want to fall. This was written to fulfill that for myself. It is unbeta'ed, so thanks for bearing with me. =]


End file.
